Hot Fuzz
by Konstantya
Summary: Austria finds himself straddled and pinned to the ground by Belarus. So she can get a piece of lint from his hair. (Something of a slight AustriaxBelarus.)


General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

A/N: Inspired by a tumblr prompt I received: _"what about some AusBela where the tables are turned, where Bela is the one with the power over Austria?"_

Time period: Modern.

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**Hot Fuzz  
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Austria never would have pegged Belarus as a neat freak.

He supposed it made sense, though, considering the impeccable—if perhaps a little eccentric—way she dressed. In truth, it was one of the things he'd always appreciated and even admired about her, even when her personality was so forbidding so as to render friendship impossible, even when her and her family's squabbles were loud enough to be heard all the way from his house in Vienna—the way her dresses were always pressed, her collars always starched, her stockings always pristine. To say nothing of the fact that she was one of the few women in these modern times who still wore a skirt on a daily basis. Yes, if he was being entirely truthful with himself, there was something about Belarus's appearance that always awakened some nostalgic feelings in him, and her fastidiousness when it came to her clothing, along with her general well-kemptness, was a big part of that.

Which still didn't entirely explain why she was currently straddling his stomach and had his arms pinned up above his head with one (surprisingly strong) hand. Ostensibly, it was to get a piece of lint from his hair.

He had happened across her in Dornbirn, of all places (she was returning from a visit with Liechtenstein, she said), and he had briefly made the appropriate pleasantries, not meaning to be rude, but also not sure what he could possibly talk to her about. Belarus hardly seemed one for idle conversation anyway, hardly seemed to _want_ to converse with him, and Austria had shopping to do, besides. At the time, it had made sense to simply say hello and be on his way.

And so, once their meager exchange had wound down, he'd courteously inclined his head, bid her good day, and began walking away—and it was then that her hand had snapped around his wrist, halting him in his tracks. His veins froze and apprehensively he'd turned around, wondering just what in God's name he possibly could have done to offend her, wondering if he wouldn't have to replace the shirts he'd just bought due to some impending blood stains—but all she'd done was silently point to his hair, and then gesture to the same spot on her own head.

"Your hair," she said.

Austria blinked and looked down at her, genuinely confused. "Wh-what?"

She pointed again. "There's a fuzz. In your hair."

He'd actually laughed, then—a dry little titter—and reached up with his other hand, brushing at the spot she'd indicated. Belarus, as serious as a priest at confession, had simply shaken her head. He'd given his hair another couple cursory brushes, and had tried to politely extricate himself with a mention of a men's room, and how, perhaps it would be better if he had the benefit of a mirror. But Belarus had been adamant. She'd tried to pull him closer to reach the piece of lint herself, and Austria had resisted, and somehow, they'd ended up like this: on the ground, with him on his back, and her petticoats bunched up around his chest.

"Belarus, please," he said, trying to sound forceful and not entirely sure if he succeeded—he could feel how his face had gone red and he had the sneaking suspicion his voice had gone about half an octave higher. "This is highly inappropriate—" Never mind that there was a part of him that actually kind of _liked_ it, the way her thighs were pressed up against his ribs and her breasts were dangling—

Well. That was neither here nor there. Austria merely counted himself lucky that it was still early in the day, to the extent that not many people were out and about. The less potential witnesses they had, the better. Again, he tried to wriggle out from under her, the heels of his shoes scraping the concrete. He'd just had these things resoled, too—

Her knees tightened uncomfortably around his chest, and the tip of a knife was suddenly at his neck. Belarus's face loomed in front of him, her hair falling around his head like a curtain, and she looked anything but amused. "Would you. Hold. Still."

Against his better judgment, he swallowed—loudly—and managed a very small, "Yes, ma'am." Belarus, well, didn't exactly seem _pleased_, but seemed less _irritated_ at the very least. She set her knife down and gingerly set about searching his hair for the offending fuzz. Austria could only try to find some innocuous place to look and prayed that this would all be over with quickly. He was starting to feel unbearably hot, and it wasn't just from embarrassment.

After a moment, and with a surprising delicacy, she pulled back, a single speck of lint on her finger. Her expression had relaxed into what Austria could only assume was the closest thing to "happy" she ever got, and with a little pursing of her lips, she blew it away. With that, she let go of him and stood, brushing her skirt straight before she reached out a hand to him. Austria raised himself up onto his elbows, and with some trepidation, accepted her help.

"Yes, well," he said, somewhat awkwardly, after brushing his own clothes straight. "Thank you. For that." _I think,_ he added silently.

Belarus nodded just once, curtly, and without another word, took her leave. Austria pushed his glasses back up his nose and thoughtfully watched her disappear down the street before getting a hold of himself and resuming his own stride in the opposite direction. Shifting the bag in his hand, he loosened his tie, just a little, and reflected on what had just transpired.

Liechtenstein, she'd said. He recalled now that the small, alpine nation had developed something of a bizarre friendship with the decidedly frostier Miss Belarus. Perhaps he could pay her a visit—discreetly, of course; there was no need to drag Switzerland's overly protective instincts into this—and inquire as to whether Belarus was always so finicky when it came to pieces of fuzz. If so, he might just have to take to rolling around in cheap cotton towels before leaving the house.

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A/N: OH, HAI THERE, HETALIA FANDOM. Though Escaflowne's been getting a lot of my love recently, I haven't forsaken you, I swear! I'd actually been itching to write a little somethin' somethin' for Hetalia (particularly something AusHun or AusBela), but ideas were, like, nonexistent. So I put out a tumblr request for prompts, and received (among others), the one quoted at the top. While I like writing Austria as something of a seme (partially for the novelty factor—he's so often characterized as a stereotypical weepy uke, after all), I do rather think he occasionally likes letting the ladies (or whoever) be in charge when it comes to the bedroom. Admittedly, this turned out a bit more funny than sexy, but it's still kind of sexy? And Belarus is definitely the dominant one here, so…

In other news, I love the idea that Austria gets his shoes resoled. Like, "FUCK YOU, WHO NEEDS NEW SHOES WHEN YOU CAN JUST FIX THE OLD ONES. THEY STILL WORK JUST FINE AND THEY'RE BROKEN IN AND VERY COMFORTABLE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH." Frugal asshole still probably wears shoes from the 1800s, jfc.

Anyway, thanks for reading!


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